


Lost in Translation

by reapertownusa



Series: The Past is a Foreign Country [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting Dean go isn’t as easy as John thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> This part contains vague references to rape and implied past child abuse. Overall themes of prostitution and father/son incest.

The night CPS had come for his boys they were alone in a foreclosed house. No electricity in the middle of a Minnesota December. That they hadn’t frozen to death was a miracle, Sam likely would have if Dean hadn’t been so meticulous about tending the fire. 

Distantly John could still remember Dean in worn, blue pajamas that he had long since outgrown, bare feet padding across the cold wooden floors. His tiny boy struggled to lift the chopped logs onto the fireplace then climbed up to sit on the stone. Kneeling there he heaved the wood in, setting off a shower of sparks from the crumbling hot coals. 

With his head buried in books featuring all things evil, John had only sat by and complained that Dean was going through the wood too fast. Thank God Dean had known better than to listen to him. John had been too entrenched in the darkness to see what was happening right in front of his face, too afraid of real evil to consider the human element. 

That night he’d left his baby in the care of a five year old and hadn’t thought twice about it. It had been far from the first time. Dean was the one to feed Sam, put him to bed and changed his diapers. Hell, Dean washed Sam’s diapers after John had decided disposables were too expensive and they’d have to switch to cloth. They’d needed more money for weapons. 

Those weapons had been set around the house, mixed with empty bottles of assorted alcohol and newspaper clippings of gruesome murder victims from across the country. When he’d left to go hustle pool at the bar he’d been drunk. When he’d come back shorter on cash than when he’d left he was only drunker. 

Dean wisely tended to give him a wide berth on those nights and always kept Sam by his side. It hadn’t occurred to John to check on the boys, but he remembered having been infuriated at the sound of Sammy crying. He’d been all the more pissed when Dean hadn’t done anything about it and downright livid when he realized his baby was crying from inside the closet. 

He didn’t remember what he shouted when he’d demanded Dean come out of wherever he was hiding and explain himself. There was though no doubt in his mind that he’d be sick to hear those half sincere threats coming out of his mouth now. Thankfully Dean hadn’t been there to hear the ugly words. His son was already gone. 

A click of a door lock broke John’s half sleep state, jolting him back to the present and sending him clamoring for a pistol. Reality caught up with him before he found it. Dean. His eyes shot to the empty pillow beside his. The blankets were pristinely folded, the darkened spots of blood on the white pillowcase the only sign anyone had ever been there. 

His lips parted to release a weary sigh as his hand reached out to the pillow. It was still warm. John’s first instinct was to jump out of bed and go after Dean, but to what end? He knew the boy needed care, knew just as assuredly that he needed the boy. The latter reason was what kept him in bed. His craving to take care of Dean had far less to do with that boy and far more to do with his penance for the past. He was through making others carry the weight of his sins. 

Bleary eyes glanced towards the blindingly bright red numbers of the room’s alarm clock. It was midnight. Dean had told him at the dock that he wanted to be let off by midnight and John had known from the moment that he’d brought the boy here that he’d have to find a way to let him go. This was easier. 

That was what he told himself as he laid in the dark, his hand reaching beneath the sheets to draw in the fading warmth from Dean’s body. He clutched the sheets tightly in his fist. His other hand fumbled for the television remote and clicked the power on. The room’s silence was too deafening. All he could hear was his own thoughts, all he could feel was the empty ache in his heart. 

At some point it faded away, back to memories of the past. Mary lay beside him. He reached out to her, drawing her close. As she nestled into him his hands explored the perfect curves of her body, every one he knew by heart. 

Strong hands pushed beneath his shirt, running over his chest, pulling away only long enough to work the buttons of his shirt free. He couldn’t remember why the hell he’d worn a shirt to bed or why she’d worn jeans. When she moved on to the zipper of his own pants, it didn’t seem to matter until he felt a heavy pressure straddling his legs. 

Barely pulled from the dream, John struck out his fist only to have it deflected. He bucked up, shoving the weight off him. His eyes focused just in time to see Dean flying backwards. The boy hit the floor with a hard thud, landing in a tangle of blankets and sheets. 

John scrambled from the bed. Dean cringed as he squirmed free of the sheets and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. When John came up behind him and touched his shoulder, Dean sprung to his feet, twisting around with fists clenched. Catching John’s eyes, the boy disarmed, suddenly looking ashamed. 

“Sorry,” Dean muttered. He stood with his arm clutching his side, his expression wary. “I thought you wanted...I didn’t know you were asleep.” 

“I thought you were someone else.” 

While John would have sworn he saw a flash of hurt in Dean’s eyes, the boy’s face instantly returned to a neutral mask. “Who?” 

“No one,” John replied too quickly. “Did I hurt you?” 

“I tripped. Wasn’t your fault.” 

Maybe the boy had hit his head a little too hard just now. The flicker of the television mingled with the early morning glow seeping in from behind the curtains. It was enough to get a general read on Dean, but not enough to evaluate the boy’s condition. John rubbed his eyes, fumbling for the lamp switch. He and Dean both squinted at the strong flood of light. 

Once his eyes adjusted he could see that last night’s red marks had darkened to purple bruising. It only made Dean’s fair skin look paler. On his face the abrasions had done the same and the discolored skin had swelled enough to barely permit his left eye to open. 

“I know,” Dean said as he looked down to the floor. “I look like shit.” 

Dean’s unzipped jeans were sliding down his thighs and John knew that he had been the one to unfasten them. Absently the boy pulled them back up, quickly tucked himself in and redid the buckle. John had been stripping down a rape victim in his sleep. There was only one person here that needed to be apologizing and it wasn’t Dean. 

“How do you feel?” 

It was obvious that Dean was in a great deal of pain. If anything he only looked worse than he had last night and twice as exhausted. Tossing him around wasn’t helping anything. What John needed was an accurate indication of whether or not he still needed to get Dean to a hospital. 

“Super.” John shot Dean a sharp look and the boy gave a dismissive shrug. “I’ll live.” 

John retrieved the remote from the floor and threw the sheets back on the bed before Dean got it in his head to do it himself. Clicking off the rambling news reporter, John tossed the remote aside and refastened the buttons of his shirt. 

“Where’d you go last night?” 

While he looked startled by the question, Dean’s tone was calm. “Outside. Couldn’t sleep. I was trying not to wake you.” 

“You did fine.” 

Better than fine, more like terrifyingly stealth. Dean had slipped out of his arms, off the broken down springs of the mattress, dressed and made it out of the room before John had heard anything. Later he had made it back in, undressed and climbed back into the bed. 

An uneasy feeling stirred in John’s gut at the thought that he was so far off his game not to notice someone coming and going from his room. The boy could have been an incubus and John apparently would have slept through it. 

Nature called him to the bathroom and he was grateful for the distraction. His hand went to close the door, but hesitated on the doorknob. Dean was out of view anyway and it didn’t seem right to imply that he deserved privacy, but Dean didn’t. 

When he turned around to wash his hands, John jumped slightly. Still without a shirt, Dean was leaning against the doorframe just watching him. His hands were loosely tucked into the pockets of Sam’s jeans. 

“Need help with those hard to reach spots?” Dean asked. 

“What?” 

“In the shower...” 

“Oh...” 

John was having trouble paying attention to the words as his mind wandered. Maybe it wasn’t just him being off his game. The kid moved like a cat. That wasn’t something that came without practice. Dean might be lean, but he was still solid muscle. John needed a better sense of Dean’s background. 

“How long has it been since you’ve slept in a bed?” John asked. He decided against pulling any punches given that Dean was obviously a pro at evasion. 

“Bed works too.” When John said nothing in reply Dean shot a look over his shoulder to the clock. “About seven minutes.” John’s eyes narrowed and Dean again rethought his answer. “I’ve been in a lot of beds.” 

“Sleeping?” John didn’t bother masking the skepticism in his voice. 

Pushing out of the bathroom’s doorway, Dean returned to the main room. “I’m not some Little Orphan Annie, you know.” The boy grabbed Sam’s sweatshirt from beside the bed and slipped it on. He shoved the hood back and ruffled a hand through his hair before looking to John. “I’ll tell you what, Detective, be here when I get back and you can ask me anything you want.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Work.” 

“Hold on there.” John stepped forward to block Dean’s path to the door. “You can’t just go to work like you’re okay.” 

“I am okay and those damn crates aren’t gonna load themselves.” 

“Are you insane? You’re not going back to the dock.” 

The words were spoken as a clear order, the same unremitting tone that had chased his own son out the door. It was little surprise that a boy who had no real connection to him was no more interested in listening. 

“I can go wherever the hell I want.” 

“You’re right,” John relented, though he kept his solid stance between Dean and the door. “But you’re only asking for trouble going back there.” 

“Yeah, well, I ask for it wherever I go. At least there they pay me.” 

“I can give you money.” 

Dean shook his head, biting at the undamaged side of his lip. “I don’t want to be your whore.”

It took a minute for John to digest the words before he could reply. “I’m not asking you to be with me.” 

“I wanna be with you.” Dean fell silent before letting go of a wry chuckle. 

John raised his brow as he stared at the boy. “That’s funny?” 

“Not even a little.” Tying up his boots gave Dean a distraction for a minute before he had to look back to John. “Sorry. I’m not usually such a needy little bitch.” 

“Me neither.” 

Dean looked to the floor, but as he did a genuine smile broke across his lips. It was the first hint of anything aside from sadness that John had seen from the boy and it was nothing short of breathtaking. 

“Breakfast.” 

“What?” 

“You can buy me breakfast,” Dean repeated. There was still a sparkle in Dean’s eyes as he looked back up to John. “Man, I’m starving.” 

In Dean’s case John imagined that wasn’t even a figure of speech. He was fairly certain at the least the boy hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, if then. To keep Dean off the docks, he’d buy the boy anything he wanted. Breakfast was the least he could do. 

“You got it.” 

“Dude, you’re awesome. Like John Wayne,” Dean said as he slipped by him into the bathroom. “You got the whole gruff Duke thing going on.” Dean dug something out of his pocket before shooting a glance back towards him. “Anyone ever call you that?”

“The Duke?” 

“John.” 

At the boy’s question he realized that he had never given his name. His brow furrowed as Dean flipped on the bathroom light and leaned towards the mirror. The thing in the boy’s pocket was some kind of makeup that Dean was expertly applying to the bruises on his face. 

“Laugh and I will kick your ass,” Dean warned. 

Laughter was the last thing on his mind. John was no longer hungry at the thought that two of the only things Dean had were a weapon and cover up to disguise bruising. Rubbing that stuff into the abraded skin of his cheek had to hurt like hell and sure wasn’t helping the healing process any. 

“You look fine.” 

“You’re a piss poor liar,” Dean replied as he stuffed the cover up back into his rear pocket. “I don’t feel like playing twenty questions if a nosier cop than you stops me.” 

“I’ll keep them off your back,” John promised. He wasn’t letting anyone near this boy. 

When Dean opened the door to leave John felt the rush of the cold wind and saw the shiver it pulled from Dean. John grabbed a second jacket and handed the leather one to Dean who just stared at it. 

“What’s that for?” Dean asked. 

“You. Put it on. I don’t want you catching a chill.” 

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Dad.” While the words were said sarcastically, they were obviously a cover and the masked expression on Dean’s face was nothing but sincerity. Maybe even more than that. 

After a moment of hesitation, Dean accepted the jacket from him and slipped it on. John focused on locking up the room and trying to choke down the pain in his heart from that one simple word. Dad. It had been a long damn time since anyone had called him that, even Sam.

“It is John,” he told Dean as he led him down the steps. 

“I know.” 

John stopped mid step to stare at Dean who just kept up his slow progress down the stairs. Finally the boy turned halfway down the flight and looked back up at him, the sad smile again playing on his lips. “Over half the guys that fuck me are named John,” Dean explained. “I was bound to find the right one sooner or later.” 

Turning back around, Dean continued down the steps. John didn’t even know how to begin to interpret the statement. Instead of trying, he jogged down the steps to catch up with Dean. It was no use thinking before he got a pot full of caffeine flowing through his veins. 

When they reached the café, John opened the door for Dean who looked understandably wary as he entered the restaurant. John slid into the same booth he had occupied for the last several days and Dean wordlessly slipped into the seat across from him. Dean stayed near the edge of the booth seat. At first John thought it was nerves, but then the boy grimaced when he shifted on the poorly padded vinyl. 

The now familiar waitress gave John her warmest smile though it fell from her lips when she looked over Dean. As well as the boy had done with cover up on the discolored skin, it wasn’t enough to disguise the swelling. He still looked like he’d been hit by a car. 

“Rough night, hun?” the waitress asked Dean. 

“What did I tell you, Sue?” Dean said with a shrug. “It just ain’t my week.” 

“Sorry to hear it, sweetie. You could’ve ended up with worse company though,” she replied with a wink towards John. “So what can I get you fine gentlemen?” 

“He’s buying,” Dean said with a nod towards John. 

John thought Dean was just informing the waitress for the check, but Dean didn’t go on to order. Slowly John realized that the boy was waiting to be told what he could or couldn’t choose from the menu. 

“And you’re eating,” John replied. “Get whatever you want.” 

Dean looked surprised and still didn’t go right on to order, drawing a frown to John’s lips. The boy was on a first name basis with the waitress, but didn’t even know what kind of food the café served. John handed him the menu. Dean stared blankly at it for a moment before scanning over it. 

“Better do a...” John watched Dean’s finger trace over from the names of a couple of the meals to the prices before setting the menu aside. “Can you do a couple of fried eggs with a strip of bacon?” 

John shook his head before taking the menu from Dean. “We’ll both have a Number 3 with a side of eggs and bacon,” John corrected. 

“Coming right up,” Sue replied as she took the menu from him. 

When she was gone Dean quirked a brow at him. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“No. I wanted to. Stop worrying about money. That’s my job. You got it?” 

“Your job? You my pimp now?” Dean asked. By the curious expression on his face, it was half joke and half legitimate question. 

“Just let me take care of you until you can get your feet back under you. Money isn’t a problem.” 

“Uh huh. And you just chose to stay at Bed Bugs Motor Inn because you liked the homey ambiance.” 

It had been nearly twenty years since John had made an honest dollar. Instead he had half a dozen bogus credit cards lining his wallet and could hustle spending cash whenever he needed it. He didn’t spend a dime on bills and as far as the IRS was concerned he no longer existed. He couldn’t explain any of that to Dean, only that finance really wasn’t an issue. 

“I travel a lot. Upscale hotels are a waste of money.” 

Dean nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “I’m gonna hit the head.” 

As Dean walked away from the table John watched, half convinced the boy was going to make a break for it. Dean wasn’t a prisoner. He was free to go wherever he wanted, but John felt an inappropriate sense of dread at the thought of the boy disappearing again. While it would happen eventually, for now Dean did just slip into the bathroom. 

“Poor kid,” the waitress remarked as she returned with coffee. “It’s real good of you to get him a meal.” 

“What do you know about him?” John asked. 

“Not much. He just dropped into town last week.” 

“He’s not from around here?” 

John hadn’t even stopped to think that Dean wasn’t a resident of the town. He seemed too familiar with the area though it would explain his complete disregard for the union’s picket line. 

“Not many are. This place tends to attract drifters, but he’s had a harder time than most. Had his car stolen first night in town. It’s so strange. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen around here. Folks get drunk, get out of hand, but auto theft...that’s big city problems and the poor thing was hysterical about it.” 

“His car?” 

Every visualization John had formed of Dean was centered around him being a street kid that spent his life drifting from pier to pier. He hadn’t imagined that Dean would have ever been in possession of a vehicle. 

“Between you and me, I think he was living out of it. He seemed a lot less worried about the car and a lot more concerned about whatever he had in it.” The waitress gave him a smile as Dean came back towards the table. “I better go check on your breakfast.” 

“Miss me?” Dean asked John as he carefully sat back down. 

“Sue was just telling me about your car.” 

“Yeah. The thing was a piece of crap...but it was my piece of crap, you know?” Dean sipped from his coffee as he focused his eyes out the window. If anything the sky seemed to be growing darker. The wind had picked up and the rain had begun to fall. “They could have waited until the summer. December sucks ass.” 

John couldn’t agree more. He guzzled his coffee as the waitress returned with their meals. The sight of the large plates heaping with food brought an almost comical wide-eyed look to Dean’s face. As John had feared, the boy went on to eat like he hadn’t seen food in weeks or at least like he was afraid someone would take it from him. 

They ate in silence until Dean had nearly cleaned his plate then John couldn’t help but pressing again for some answers. “So where are you originally from?” 

Taking another bite of sausage, Dean glared at John before answering. “The deal was you get to interrogate me after work.” 

“That was before I bought you breakfast.” 

“Guess you got me there.” Dean drank some more coffee before going to work on the last of his pancakes. “Duluth, but we never stayed in one place long. You ever been to Minnesota?” 

The pang in John’s heart grew painful and it was all he could do to force a stiff nod. “You still got family there?” 

“No family. It was just me and my dad. You really loved her.” 

John’s eyes shot up at the sudden change in subject and the softness of Dean’s voice. He hadn’t realized that he’d been running his fingers over his wedding band until he followed Dean’s eyes to the dulled silver. “Never stopped. How’d you know she was...?” 

“Guys don’t wear their wedding ring to pick up hookers unless they don’t care or she’s gone. You’re like a fucking mother hen so...” 

A ghost of a smile fluttered over John’s lips. “So I’ve been told. Sorry about that.” 

“It’s cool. It’s just...it’s weird for me.” 

“I take it you and your father aren’t close.” 

“Oh we were as close as you can get.” Dean said it with a slight chuckle but the words were bitter cold, killing what remained of John’s appetite. “You just got the one son?” 

“I lost one when he was just a boy...in Minnesota.” He watched Dean for any kind of reaction but the boy’s expression remained distant. “The other is away at college. Where’s your dad now?” 

“Spread his ashes outside Reno.” 

“Sorry.” 

Dean nodded, fixating on rearranging his silverware. “Me too.” 

“You boys all finished?” the waitress asked as she returned to the table. 

John nodded, paid the bill and knocked back the rest of his coffee before following Dean out of the café. The rain had slowed, but still fell as they stepped out onto the slick sidewalk. Dean pulled the hood of the sweatshirt over his head though John suspected it was more to hide his eyes than to hide from the rain. 

“How old were you when you lost your father?” John asked. 

The boy’s steps faltered for a moment. “Uh...puberty.” 

John wasn’t sure he wanted to know why Dean would remember that or why he thought it qualified for an age. “How old are you now?” 

“Legal.” John walked beside him in silence as he awaited a more specific answer. “Twenty-ish...Dad was never big on birthdays.” 

“What year were you born?” Dean said nothing as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You don’t know.” The boy didn’t respond either way, which was a clear enough affirmative. “Who’d you live with after your father?” 

“I was a prison bitch for a while then I joined the circus.” When John stopped walking Dean finally met his doubtful eyes. “Seriously. Mostly did trapeze work. Some acrobatics. It’s lame, I know. It fit my lifestyle...until it didn’t then I moved on.” 

It would explain how nimble the boy was at moving around. John chastised himself for considering the elegant visual. Instead he focused on Dean’s earlier comment. 

“You really did time?” He had thought the prison tattoo comment was a joke. It made him ill to think of this boy trying to survive prison and he sure as hell looked too young for it. "What for?" 

“I...” Dean took in an uneasy breath before looking away. “I don’t wanna get you in trouble and I can’t go back. I won’t.” 

While they were both talking in low voices, it didn’t much matter considering that the weather had cleared out the streets. “I’m not a cop, Dean. The ID, it’s fake. I’m just in town on a fishing trip.” 

“With a fake badge...” Dean’s voice trailed off, his brow creasing as he looked back up to John. “It’s rusalka season, right?” The tone was casual and a civilian could have easily discounted the question as gibberish, but to him it was a dead giveaway. With it, everything made sense. 

“You’re a hunter.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered. “You took one of them out.” The boy shook his head in frustration. “Awesome.” 

John couldn’t help but become defensive at Dean's tone. “How was I supposed to know there were two?” 

“There were three. Now there’s two and they’re pissed.” 

“Your weapons were in your car, weren’t they? What the hell were you going to do about them unarmed?” 

Dean lifted up his rolled up pant leg far enough to flash the holstered revolver John had glimpsed last night. “Got three silver rounds left.” 

“One for each rusalka? That’s suicide,” John huffed at the boy. Slowly he put together the pieces and why Dean looked so weary.The boy hadn't slept last night. “You went back to the dock to make sure everyone got out...that’s why you’re going back now.” 

“Those guys might think they’re bad ass, but they’re the defenseless ones.” 

It took everything John had to bite back the obvious reminder that some of those people Dean was risking his life to protect were the same ones that had raped him last night. John was instead distracted by an inexplicable sense of relief. If Dean already knew everything, it wouldn’t be protecting him to push him away. It was the excuse John needed to keep him close.


End file.
